


That Deathless Lie; A Deathless I

by Anonymous



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: F/M, Fairytale exercise, Violence, enemies to frenemies to lovers, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Solomon as Koschei the Deathless, and how Marya Morevena came to know him.A fairy tale exercise.
Relationships: Main Character/Solomon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Kudos: 3
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

The field was awash; thick with flowers of blooming blood, the buds of gore and viscera. Rich nutrients that would soak into the soil and provide a fertile bed for spring. It was all she could smell: the metallic tang, the warmed dirt, rendered meat steaming slowly in the early morning air. Everything sharpened by the promise of large clouds overhead, threatening snow.

The princess removed her helmet and stared down at the remains of that last invading army.

* * *

Her advisors had all told her the same thing. Councilors, statesmen, the court's appointed magician. Even the priest, when she had ventured to the carefully maintained chapel on the North end of the grounds, diaphanous light spinning through the cut crystal windows. 

"You must stop the Deathless."

"How?" She'd asked, hair anointed with linseed oil, hands held piously before her.

This is where the assembly of them had disagreed. Her councilors had told her to send an envoy, someone young and robust who might broker the grounds for a peaceful negotiation. The statesmen disagreed, had been vocal and too loud with their enthusiasm as they'd offered the formal announcement of a war. The priest had simply bent her head and directed her to pray.

So, balancing the hope against the threat, she had begun making preparations for an ambassador. All alone at her large council table, the candles half-reduced to nubs. Even the most effusively argumentative of the attendees had turned in, trading places with the stars as they blinked into wakefulness overhead. 

This is how the magician found her.

"You have the right of the idea." 

She hadn't stopped, the nib of her quill scribbling hastily across parchment. _No time, no time, no time_ , they'd repeated, and so preparations would be rushed, the company sent out first thing the day after the morrow. "So they have told me."

Soft steps in gleaming velvet slippers, gold embroidery peeking out beneath the hem of storm-coloured robes. The magician's voice was soft but in the silence it carried, every word the cadence of a mother's bedtime story. 

"But I will tell you the things that they cannot."

Morning was closer than the night, the strokes of her pen growing less sure. "Will you tell me how to stop the Deathless with certainty?"

"If that is truly what you want."

She was tired. Her eyes heavy, the light flickering beside her. She put the feather down so she could look into that hooded countenance. In this dimness it was barely more than a mouth, red and garish in the pale hint of that face. "Why would that not be what I want?"

Silence, a beat or a minute or an hour, she couldn't tell. Time was slurring, the effort of consciousness too heavy.

"Very well." The magician smiled. "Then here is what you must do. Take a wild horse from the edges of the forest, nearest where the cliff breaks off into the sea. Offer it a lock of your hair and a thin chain of gold and it will take you directly to the castle of the Deathless. You must feed it only chestnuts roasted with saffron and let it drink from streams which you have already sweetened with a single drop of honey.

The horse will offer you a sterling silver apple twice on your journey. It will smell more tantalizing than any feast prepared at your table, than the freshest fruits brought to your stores. You must not take it until you have arrived at the castle. And, under no circumstances should you eat it or you will find yourself stranded, suddenly, in a land from which you can not return."

"And what would I do once I found the Deathless?" She asked, leaning back in her tall chair. The velvet upholstery was soft against her head.

"Go around to the side of the castle, find the door hidden by silver vine. Knock four times and close your eyes. When you open them, you should find yourself in his private chambers.

Then you must hide yourself, and wait until he sleeps. Pour the contents of this bottle into his hair and he should not wake again." 

She stared down at the small vial that was placed before her. It was black, stoppered with a seal cast in bronze and stamped with a symbol that was undistinguished in this lacking light. "Is that all?"

"When it is done, return the apple to your wild horse and you will be conveyed directly home. Only remember: whatever you do, do not speak to the Deathless."

"You think me a fool," she murmured. But there was no nervous shuffling, no immediate and frightened apology. When she looked up, she was alone.

She woke early the next morning, sun stretching towards her face through the tall glass. A maid brought her a glass of tea and toasted points, sour cherry varenye and thick slices of well-roasted boar. She ate with fervour and allowed the council to reconvene.

The envoy was appointed by mid-afternoon, readied by nightfall. They left the next morning, saddles weighted down with armour and provisions, announced by the shrill cry of a kestrel trailing after their vanishing backs.

By the end of two months, the envoy still had not returned.

The magician was nowhere to be found.

* * *

They were of divided minds even in this. Her councilors pleaded with her, begged her not to be the one to make the journey. Her statesmen watched her pack with hungry eyes, taking in the measure of her chambers, the size of her crown. The priest told her, when she came to the chapel on the night of her decision, that she could only do as she felt right. She had stared at the votives, the cold glass of the vial too present in her hand.

She had to be the one to go. She knew this without reason, without hope. Her father would be the one left to run the kingdom in her place. A man of extraordinary power now made frail by time and sickness. A gaunt shadow in his voluminous sheets, swallowed by the frivolity of velvets.

The princess was already queen in all but name.

The next morning she mounted her mare, still in the grey light of dawn. Her shashka was sheathed at her hip, the scabbard bouncing rough against her leg, more familiar than a sibling. 

The road was silent and empty before her, and she rode without looking back.

The woods were darker than she had expected. Noisier. Every branch, bush, shadow was alive with a susurration that crawled into her ear and stayed. She clapped her hands against the noise and it only seemed to make the sounds clearer, closer to a language she could name.

She curled her fingers rigid around her sweet Nastia's reins and tried her best not to be swayed.

It was not a long journey.

Night had barely reached her when she found the cliff's edge, hugging the borders of the wood. A sheer drop into further greenery, trees pressed tight together, the cresting tops an imitation of waves. Knowing how to swim would not save her from the fall.

She left Nastia there, turned her around and slapped her flank hard enough to set her hand stinging. The mare gave her one long, doleful look before plodding back the way she'd come, picking easily over low roots and the slight scattering of stones.

And then the princess was alone.

It was a full two day's work to find a wild horse within the sanctuary of those trees.

She slept beneath a canopy of low hanging branches, the underside of leaves her sky. Tracing the veins of those plants like the lines of old constellations, the patterns growing hazy as her eyes succumbed to sleep.

She did not venture too far into the forest. The elusive magician had been specific enough in their instructions, and she was too smart to try any clever games. It was only a waiting that she needed to accomplish, and she did it grudgingly but well. Settled at the cliff's edge, staring out past that impossible horizon and feeling the rush of anticipation from the empty air beneath her feet.

The second afternoon, there was a soft clopping at her back. When she turned, she was face to chest with a stallion dark as death and twice as tall as any horse held in her stables. She stood and bowed, as was appropriate. One dignitary to another.

"Hello," she said, rising. She paused, waiting to see if her greeting would be reciprocated, but the horse only stared at her with dark golden eyes. She lifted her arms, unfastened the slim chain around her neck. Took the small dagger from her waist and cut off a lock of hair, and offered both tithes to the beast. "Will you take me to the castle of the Deathless?"

The horse did not answer her but turned to show its back. She gathered her things and swung herself on.

It was a strangely measured ride.

Over rocky ground. wading through shallow streams, through paths carved into stone. The light took on a strange quality; a perpetual gold, the shining of a coin as the sun set against the horizon. No matter the hour, the distance, the direction they travelled it followed her. The transient between of day and night that glowed even when she closed her eyes.

The first time the horse stopped they must have been riding nearly a full day. The princess could feel the strain of the journey at her seat, in the wooden stiffness of her legs. She slipped off, hands careful of the impossibly smooth mane, and wished there existed a saddle big enough for so gargantuan an animal.

"Is it much farther?" she asked, reaching into the pouch at her side. The roasted, spiced chestnuts gleamed like dark pearls in her palms as she offered them to the beast. There was no response, but she had not expected one.

The scrape of large teeth against her skin was rough, and she remained still.

"There is a stream just ahead of us. Will you wait for me while I prepare it?"

She could feel its eyes on her as she walked. The flask of honey was heavy on her hip, and she dropped to one knee at the bank so she could manage the single drop as was instructed. It dripped out, thick, the quality of the light made liquid. Before she had even stoppered it again the great black head was in the water, drinking heavily.

She sat in place and opened her own store of food and drink. Kvass and water, zavarnoy and dried meats, several apples. The skin of the fruit crunched loudly as she ate, pausing only for water before returning to her meal. So engrossed in the relief of sustenance that she did not notice the stallion wandering away until he had already returned, a cousin to her nearly finished produce clenched delicately by the stem between his teeth.

It shone silver even under the golden touch of the sun. And the _smell_. It was her favourite dish at every table, the memory of a cozy night with snow blanketing the ground, the warmth of medovukha after a blustery winter's day. Even though she had just been sated it already made her mouth water. She wanted to reach out and take it, feel the burst of its sweet juice in her mouth at that first bite.

"Keep it for me," she said instead, arms kept carefully at her sides. "I have no need of it yet."

The beast watched her, blinking feathery lashes against dark golden eyes. Then it tossed its head, onyx mane rippling, and the apple disappeared into the air.

Branches were gathered close to their resting place, and she built a serviceable pyre in the small clearing of the woods. The smoke disappeared quickly against this eternal sunset, swallowing up the evidence of her presence. She had thought she might catch and heat something to eat, but. She was tired, a full day's travel settled heavy in her bones. The ground was rough beneath her but at least it was not moving.

She fell into a deep sleep in front of the warmth of the fire, the brightness flickering under closed lids. The rocky surface beneath her turned to softest loam and she dreamed of nothing but the flash of silver hair and strange blue eyes.

It was impossible to say how long she had been travelling. The days were not broken up in the unchanging light, so she took this beast's imposed breaks as the measure of her time. Fifteen days (if she could call them that) of a landscape that shifted from familiar to strange. Trees that turned from rough bark to a shine smooth as metal, branches twisting out in shattered angles like the broken wreckage of swords. Pebbles that glittered underfoot like glass and streams that ran a blue too bright to ever have been a reflection of the sky. And through it all the inexplicable, drifting scent of cherries that turned her dreams too sweet.

She had only a handful of chestnuts left, only a single drop of honey. Her own provisions had run dry at their last stop, and the deep claws of hunger had staggered her posture, kept her slumping just slightly forwards on this steed.

She was half-asleep when they finally came to a stop.

"How much farther until we arrive?" she asked, as she'd asked every night since that first. She was already rooting through her pouch for this horse's last meal, wondering how they would proceed if there was any distance left to go. The only answer was the soft scrape of teeth against her palm as he ate.

When he finished she nearly fell to the water, nose and chin submerged as she drank directly from the source. It was clear and cold and tasted vaguely of dirt. Delicious, and she indulged herself so sloppily the liquid spilled down her shirt when she straightened.

Having had her fill she stretched fully along the bank, overturned her honey flask without watching as the final drop splashed into the water. Her stomach was no longer screaming at her, only insisting in muted but vengeful wails that it should be fed. She had nothing to give it. No fruit grew here, no animals to be found. It was nothing but silence and that painful golden light, the landscape barren now and too flat but for the jagged slash of stream.

The sounds of the creature drinking nearly covered her battered body's complaints.

* * *

  
She did not remember sleeping. It was like a blink; first that searing aureate brightness and then her vision was eclipsed by a shining moon. She struggled into sitting, the heavy weight of slumber weighing down her limbs. Shaking her head slowly as the world came back to focus.

The stallion stood above her, that silver apple dangling from its mouth.

She only managed to stop her reaching fingers a hair's breadth from the surface. It was radiating a heat that she could feel, even without touching.

"Thank you," she said softly. She let her arm drop heavy to her stomach. "But I cannot."

It had waited there, staring down at her for a moment as though she might change her mind. And then it had tossed its head, the apple shining as it spun into the sky.

At the end of the next night, she was so delirious with hunger she did not realize they had stopped until the stallion had shifted its feet in position, bouncing her uncomfortably forward on its back. She struggled off in the dark, uneasy on her feet.

"I'm sorry," she said. She kept her hand on his flank as though being steady were the same as being fine. "You must need a rest."

Her fingers were already scraping the bottom of her pouch before she realized that she had no more chestnuts left.

"You are hungry," she murmured, because it must be. "I have nothing to give you."

The horse turned towards her, nosing at her cheek. She blinked against the warm breath on her face. "Will you eat me, then?"

Her hand went to the shashka hanging at her waist. She did not think she had strength enough to draw it, let alone slay a beast so prodigious. But she would not go quietly.

It nickered, the first noise she had heard from its mouth. Pressed its lips against her shoulder, and reflexively, she leant down and kissed it on its velvet forehead. Her hand came up to caress the line of its jaw, her nails poised and sharp. Something warm and round dropped into her palm.

When it drew back she saw the sterling silver apple, her fingers closed around the metal skin.

"I cannot take this," she protested, but the horse only shook its head and stepped away. She stumbled without the support of that strong flank, barely managing upright.

When she straightened, she finally saw.

It was a building of strange architecture. Large stone blocks of shining white that seemed to defy the shadow of night, with squares of black like empty windows. Crenellations that ended in sharpened points. Flying buttresses that protruded from the walls with no sense of reason, the ends not even locked to the ground. And the entire thing bubbled, an apse barely a hand's width apart from the next so that the entire structure seemed to loom outwards, boiling and alive.

The sun had finally set.

She had arrived.

* * *

  
She could only assume where the front of the castle would be. Marking it as the place where the stallion had left her she circled around the walls, searching for another door hidden by a covering of crawling vines.

She found it only on the third pass, when she thought to trail her hands along the polished stone. Her fingers bled on the sharp edges of the leaves, the silver of the plant blending in against the white. Impossible vegetation that could cut like a blade, subtle defense against intruders.

Finding the stem she plucked it carefully away from the door and lifted her fist. It did not sound hollow when she closed her eyes and knocked.

Nothing. She had expected a disorientation, an unwelcome vertigo, but she was standing as firmly as before. Only the air quality had changed; less sharp and tinged with the sweet taste of honey. She opened her eyes. And cursed so loudly and with such vehemence even her priest would have been hard-pressed to absolve her.

"Colourful language from a Princess."

The man spoke from his position in a high-backed chair, what she could see of the upholstery plush and embroidered with shining thread. He was drinking idly from a goblet, the polished metal obscuring half his face. The room itself was utterly spare; only a single chair and the table to occupy the full, circular space. He did not offer her a seat.

"You are the sorcerer they call the Deathless."

He smiled at her, eyes narrowing in that curve. Her palm was already resting lightly on the handle of her sword.

"You've travelled a long distance," he said by way of answer. "You must be tired."

"Yes," she said carefully. Her plans had been waylaid, but if she was clever she might find another opportunity. "Perhaps we could reconvene when we have both had ample rest."

He placed the cup on the short table before him. Nodded, as though this were nothing more than sense. "Of course. I'm sure you'll be much more interesting once you've properly slept."

His movements were too easy in the face of so obvious a danger, ruffling careless through his messy black hair. She wondered that the strands didn't catch on the multitude of rings resting heavy on his fingers. Gold and silver, some plain, some decorated in shining jewels that glittered in a light not produced by any lamp or candle. Her hand had not moved from her weapon.

"I'll see you in the morning, then."

She waited, but he did not move to stand from his chair. Instead he smiled at her again and there was a loud _snap_. She barely had the time to register that she was suddenly lying in a bed, divested of her clothing and her equipment, before sleep came to overtake her.

It was the best sleep she had had in an age. She woke feeling invigorated, arms stretched, silk sheets slipping from strangely clean, bare skin. The room was not too cold even after the warmth of those swaddling blankets, and she rose and dressed, checking all her items. Her shashka remained untouched, and the vial that had been presented by the magician was still safe in her travelling pouch.

She took it out now. There hadn't been call to investigate it before her journey, and during the trip she had been preoccupied with the alien terrain, the travel. Now she held it carefully, twisting so that she could see the stopper's seal in the unnatural light.

Three crosses, one larger than the others, caged within the loose sketch of what had to be a temple. The whole symbol was supported on a series of what she could only call columns, resting on fluted feet. Curious. It was not a drawing she was familiar with. She tucked it into her shirt, close against her chest. It was frigid against her skin.

An hour passed before she thought to look for a door. She had been conveyed by magical means into the room, she had assumed her exit would be similar. When it was not she finally stood, surveying her surroundings.

It could have been the twin to her room in the palace. The large canopied bed, the salvar on the wooden dresser with a glass of perfume and linseed oil. Even the washing basin, with finely painted bears in red and blue dancing around the rim, delicate as marzipan. It was only stopped from perfect congruity by the walls, which were curved so that she was closed in a tight, dizzying circle.

She finally found the door hidden behind the mirror; full length , her reflection looking back at her, every movement delayed by a moment. When she pressed the gilded edges, the cold metal smooth under her fingers, the entire thing swung outwards on some hidden hinge into a featureless white hall.

When it closed behind her she could not find the seam.

The passageway was strange and bright and empty. Every step echoed too far and too long, betraying a distance that seemed impossible for a structure she'd circled three times the day before. Not even the benefit of shadows to help orient her to this formless, inchoate place; a world before beginning.

There was only one destination. At the conclusion of this corridor a gaping black rectangle stood, ominous. An entrance or a barrier through which no light could penetrate. It seemed a trap; too simple a thing. Possibly one of those portals she'd glimpsed from outside, where a single step through would have her hurtling to the ground whatever distance below.

It didn't matter. There was nowhere else to go.

It was like stepping through a sheet of water, cold and tangible against her skin. She shut her eyes as she moved across the threshold, expected to feel the liquid dripping off her fingers, clinging to her clothes.

She was perfectly dry.

"Oh good. You're awake."

The sorcerer glanced at her from over a porcelain cup. Steam curled around his face, lifting the edges of his dark bangs. Black hair, pale skin, shining, bright blue eyes. He would have been handsome, if she'd had a mind to notice.

"I've found you."

"You have." He smiled at her, easy and disarming. Her hand was already twitching, empty without the handle of her sword. "Come, have a drink. You must be hungry."

She stared openly, still standing at the entrance of the room. Brazen. It was difficult to fear reprisal when his actions mirrored her own, eyes roving and sharp. A bear and a wolf. Two predators sizing up the other and weighing which one would be prey. "Do I have leave to sit?"

"Oh! Am I being rude? Please." He gestured across from him and a seat materialized, dark green and blooming with red flowers. She took it, the petals crushed beneath her, flattening into the velvet as she sat. All this comfort after so many days of austerity was bracing and she refused to be swayed.

"Medovukha?" he asked finally, raising a mug. "Medovik?"

"Is honey the only edible thing here in your palace?"

"Would you prefer meat?" He was already cutting a slice of that sweet, soft cake. Its fragrance drifted towards her as he slid it on a plate, adding to the room's cloying perfume. "We do get horses here, sometimes. Not often, but I'm sure one could be called if you were particularly inclined."

She did not narrow her eyes. Instead she glanced down at the offering, the biscuit golden brown and moist. It would be unwise to eat from his table.

But she was _starving_.

She dipped her finger in the frosting, crumbled the point of the confection into the porcelain. No terrible itching, no burning, no awful sensation. It did not even discolour her skin. She wiped gracelessly on the napkin that materialized at her side and picked up a fork.

The cake was not as sweet as she'd expected, and the cream melted decadently on her tongue. "Thank you."

His smile spread, showing teeth as neat as gravestones. "I should thank you, too."

"For what?"

"Your generous gift."

She blinked, and the sterling silver apple materialized in one finely boned hand, already lifting a blurry reflection to his pink mouth. He made a nearly romantic picture, the shine of the fruit so fantastic as to be alien. She had not thought to check if it was still tucked within her pouches.

It was more instinct than breath, noise before consequence. The porcelain plate shattering, the clatter of her chair dropping behind her, the remaining cream and sugar smearing against her clothes. And a sharp, long ringing, clear as a bell just struck. Surprise flashed on his face, blood trickling from the nail where she had split it. The golden edge of her shashka quivering where it was embedded in the wall, having glanced off his hand after that first hard-won cut.

"You really _are_ good, aren't you?" He stared at the blade, impressed. "I must say, it's very different to experience it in person."

The apple dropped to the table. Stood whole for one hopeful second before it separated into two perfect, shining halves and then lost its shape, both sides melting, dripping onto the surface.

"That was not for you," she bit.

He shook his hand out, the bent angles of his nail already straightening. "No? You don't think it rude to visit without a gift?"

"I did bring you a gift." The malformed halves were still seeping, liquid and viscous. "I will give it to you the night before I depart."

He smiled at her. She was beginning to decipher the uneasiness it brokered; the quality of it was too knowing. Too bright. "When do you think you'll be leaving?"

"When our business has concluded."

He nodded. Closed his hands on his lap as though he were closing out her earlier violence. "To business, then. What brings the war princess to my humble castle?"

"A war, of course."

"Of course," he agreed easily. "And you've come to solicit my help?"

"I would not refuse it, given that you were the progenitor."

"Was I, now?"

She dropped back into her seat, heedless of the mess of cake beneath her. "What would you call sending your armies to my door?"

He hummed, tilting his head. His hair was too long, she thought. Length enough to grab, if she were so inclined. Her fingers tapped restless on her legs.

"An experiment," he said finally. His broad shoulders lifted in a careless gesture and she fought down the urge to strike him with a curled fist.

All that chaos for a test. Those wasted resources, all that planning and effort and _time_. She frowned, put the full force of her displeasure behind the lines of her mouth. He did not crumble beneath the weight of it, did not prostrate himself at her feet. Irritating.

That actually made her like him more.

She put her arm out and the shashka flew back into her palm, fingers curling instinctively at the rough slide of her handle. He blinked, intrigued. "I did not think you had the affinity for magic."

"I don't."

Silence settled as he considered her. Finally he laughed, eyes crinkling, _glittering_ like sapphires in his head. Something so genuine she was unbalanced, grip on her sword tightening.

"Why don't you stay? As my guest, of course. I suspect there's much that we could learn from each other."

It was a suspect offer, but. She did not look at the oozing remains of the silver fruit. "What do you intend to do with me?"

He waved a hand airily, unconcerned. "Nothing untoward, no need to worry. I'd simply like the opportunity to . . . _talk_."

"Guarantee it."

"You want an oath. Clever thing, fine." He lifted an arm, drew something in the air, the path of his fingers lingering with a glow. A seal of some sort that seared itself against her pupils, so she still saw it when the image finally dissipated. "That should secure your safety from any unprovoked danger. Will you stay?"

She waited. There was no discomfort, only a warmth that settled over her like a shroud, head to foot until for a moment she forgot quite how to breath. And then it passed, and she only felt irritated and still a little hungry.

"Fine," she allowed, grudging. The sorcerer smiled, inclining his head and offering his hand. There was still blood marring one pale finger.

She shook without hesitation.

  
And so they talked. She visited each day to allow him to prod her with his questions and present her own. While she was always clear in speaking his answers ranged from aggravating to purposefully indefinite, and she would leave each evening feeling more vexed than she had when she'd first set out, the stones of her palace walls still distinct behind her.

But still she came. Limited to her chambers and his, there was little else to do.

They spoke of nothing. Magical theory half-remembered from her tutors, the changing politics of the landscape, the best meat for pelmeni, the finer points of making nastoiki. The few literary tales that she could remember, forced upon her by a weary governess, desperate to instill her with the barest deportment of a princess.

For all she learned of this sorcerer, she might have been talking to herself.

Each visit to his rooms yielded some new decoration. A chair of her own, velvet and crushed flowers. A tapestry of her most impressive battles, woven from threads so fine she could not separate them. A low set of drawers curved to fit against the bright stone wall, the wood pale enough to be disguise had she not hit the edge. A silver tea service on a rolling cart, a large samovar balanced precipitously on the surface.

This last device was her favourite. All silver and enamel, colourful motifs that set to swirling when she tried to look too closely. Better still, it rang less of sarcastic puffery than his other attempts at design. It was simply here to serve a function.

She sat in her chair, watching it with undisguised interest. Something was bubbling inside that large vessel, though she could see no source of heat. She put her hand on the surface and felt the mosaic moving beneath her fingers.

"It will burn you," the sorcerer told her, watching mildly. 

She frowned and deliberately left her palm against the too-hot surface for an extra moment, unhurried. The sear of it on skin was uncomfortable but she refused to flinch.

"Will you take some tea?"

"Yes."

A delicate cup was placed beneath the spout, hot water running out at the first touch.

"You do it by hand," she observed.

"What? Instead of with magic, you mean?" He poured milk, sprinkled spices. Then stirred it all together, the soft _clank_ of the spoon hitting rhythmically against the sides. "Magic isn't good for everything. Besides, I like the ritual of it."

"Hm." She accepted the proffered cup. Lifted it and smelt the sweet aroma of Russian tea coiling around her, briefly covering that constant smell of melting honey.

She took a sip. Then parted her lips and let the liquid run back into the cup.

"This is disgusting."

"Is it?" He glanced at her, lifting his own cup to his mouth. He took a long, deep swallow and sighed. Satisfied. "I think it's quite good."

She watched in muted consideration as he actually finished his cup. "So mine is poisoned."

"Hardly." He shrugged. "If it were poisoned you wouldn't have noticed."

"Then this is a sacrilege." She held his gaze as she extended her arm and overturned the little porcelain cup. The liquid masquerading as tea splattered heavy on the carpet. Not unexpectedly, the stain vanished as it appeared, almost as though she were pouring directly into a very pretty covered drain.

"You're spitting on my hospitality," he said evenly.

She felt the tremor in her arms, the tension in her shoulders. She had her shaska on her hip, though she was not fool enough to think she would be able to use it to strike a killing blow. "I am functionally a prisoner."

"And yet I'm treating you so nicely. If I were in your care I wouldn't be nearly this comfortable, would I?"

"No," she said honestly. "You would not be."

"See, I thought not." The sorcerer reached towards the samovar to refill his cup. "Then enjoy yourself. There's nothing else for it."

She frowned but reached for the appliance, copying his movements. She didn't turn towards his tray of milk and spices, opting instead to take the drink black.

When she put it to her lips the taste was clear and strong and perfectly potable. She swirled the cup coarsely with one hand. "What terrible mistreatment do you undertake to make good tea undrinkable?"

"Ah, I see we've finally arrived at the real reason you've come to see me." She raised a brow and he smiled at her. "You've come to steal my secrets."

"No." She straightened her back. "I've come to kill you."

"Have you?" he asked without surprise. Neither of them acknowledged the sword still tucked in its scabbard, a shining tooth rendered dull. "I have to say, you aren't doing a very good job of it."

"For now."

He paused, eyes narrowed indulgently. "Cute."

"Excuse me?"

"You're like a wounded little cub. Baring your teeth to show me you still have fangs." He watched her, finger hovering over the surface of his drink. The liquid was turning without interference; a spiral being pulled down through the centre. "Maybe I should get you a leash. Tell me, what colour do you like better? Silver or gold?"

"Red." She smiled for his benefit. "It hides the stains the best."

* * *

"You thought me a liar."

"Not at all." He made a flicking motion, the rings on his fingers catching the light, almost _artificial_. Designed to distract, as the tea evaporated from his shoulder. She watched as dark droplets lifted into the air, growing smaller and smaller until they blinked beyond sight. "I just thought you might have a better plan for it."

"You have watched me long enough, have you not?" Her arms were pressed so tight against her chair she felt the wrinkles of the fabric embossing on her skin. She made a second attempt to lift from the surface, chest straining outwards.

"I have. Although to see the subject up close always offers far more insight." The sorcerer leant in towards her, eyes shining bright beneath that black silk fringe. "Perhaps it's more instinct for you, now. Must be difficult to fight an enemy you do not know."

She snapped forwards, the constraints of his magic slightly too elastic to catch her before she nipped the end of his nose. No skin, which was disappointing but not unexpected.

He blinked, stepping back.

"You were more careless than expected," she said, disillusioned.

Frankly she had thought it would be more of a fight. A determined outcome, to be sure. There was no question of her winning with so little information, only the enchantment of her shashka and her vestments left to aid her.

But still.

She had never lost a battle quite so tidily.

The princess had woken that morning after two weeks of nothing but banal conversation and a probing curiosity. Had felt the familiar, restless call of violence in her fingertips. Had dressed with care, meticulous in fastening her garments, her belts. Calming ritual that settled the shaking of adrenaline called too eagerly by her heart.

And then she had walked down that impossible, numbing hallway, stepped through the portal and thrown her dagger directly at the sorcerer's dark, embroidered chest.

It had been a large enough upset that she could hook the toe of one boot beneath the low table and fling it upwards, teacups and biscuits providing a sweet curtain of diversion as she dove to the side, shashka swinging.

It had not connected with even the barest pound of flesh, the least sliver of skin. Just a wind, rustling by his ear before the blade was forced upwards and out of her hands. He had forced her backwards with a glare made physical, force compacting her into her chair. She made to snap back into standing and found that she could not. Hardly a shock, given the circumstance.

He had not been upset, shaking crumbs and drink out of his hair. This had not surprised her either.

She watched him and thought of a glass vial tucked in an old pouch, left beneath her pillow. Her prize of the afternoon was clenched tight in one pale fist; a single lock of dark, silken hair.

* * *

  
"You're bored." When she finally deigned to grace him again with her presence, it was the first thing he thought to say.

She had sequestered herself in her generous chambers for three full days and nights before she returned to the unintelligible neutrality of his room. A brief period during which she sifted through the detritus of the information she had painstakingly collected, bringing each morsel up to light as though she could determine its significance. 

The gaze she leveled at him could have curdled milk.

"You are not so interesting as you think. You answer every question with a question; talking to you is more tiring than doing nothing."

"Then leave."

She frowned at him. "The hallway only ends at one destination."

"That's not true at all. You would find the exit, if you wanted it." He leaned back, the strands of his hair nearly invisible against the velvet of his chair. Relaxed even after her earlier aggression, ineffectual as it was.

"How do you mean? There is only ever one place for me to go."

"The path never changes, only the door." He gestured at the entryway; that perfect void of black. It hung suspended in the air with no support. Such a physical emptiness she could almost feel the air drawing towards it, desperate to be filled. "The one who's trapped you here is you."

"So if I wished to leave I have only to step through that portal?"

"Exactly."

She considered it as he picked up a book from the edge of the low table. It did not matter. The objective of her quest lay uncompleted, the target reading casually from black pages, the text white and volatile on the surface. 

She dropped into her velvet chair.

"You'll keep me company a little longer?" He asked, not glancing up.

"That depends. Have you been sending your armies to my doorstep?"

The sorcerer marked his place with a shining silk ribbon, dark green and rich as a forest. "I did, once," he admitted.

"Only once? I've been here long enough."

He shrugged. "It was poor sport without you there to meet them."

She stared, waiting to see the trick. He met her gaze. _Sincere_.

The princess threw back her head and laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Would you like to play?"

She glanced down, legs thrown rudely over the arm of her chair. The checkered board that had materialized before him was like none she had ever seen before. Circular in shape, every space a strangely curved diamond that barely fit its piece. The spiraling lines were making her dizzy.

His chin was propped in one hand, the queen dangling casual in the other. "Are you tired of the game?"

"I have been too preoccupied of late to play." A pointed statement that he conceded with easy grace. "I may be out of practice."

"You know the rules?"

"If this is anything like chess then I can learn."

It was like chess and not. The pieces moved with a logic that was nearly impossible to follow, first able to leap over other pieces, then stalled in movement. Any parts she claimed were done through no fault of her own.

He laughed to see the consternation on her face. "Is it that difficult?"

"I will find the rhythm of it soon."

"You sound confident," he mused. He directed another piece, nimbly snuffing out one of hers. It shuddered and fell to dust on its place. "Are you?"

"I do what I say."

"You do, don't you?" He paused, tilting his head. His eyes were too blue today, like the colour of a sky she could not see from her room's curved window. "In that case, let's have a wager."

"What do you want from me that I do not already give you?"

He smiled. "I haven't decided yet. Does it matter?"

"Of course. Only a fool agrees to terms undecided."

"Fine. For now, how about . . . Your locket."

She snorted, eyeing the metal armouring his fingers. "You want jewelry?"

"I've seen that pretty thing around your neck. What, you don't think I would suit?"

Pretty. A word she would not have used to describe so austere an adornment. It was old metal, polished to a shine only from the rub of her skin. It held the only portrait of her mother that she had ever seen, gifted to her by her father when she had been nine.

She had not opened it in years.

"I accept. On the condition that for every piece of yours I take, you must answer a question of mine. _Honestly_."

"A deal, then." He held out his hand and she shook it. Warmth ballooned in the space between their palms and she grit her teeth.

When he released her the skin was unblemished.

The board shifted, the lines drawing together until the whole thing was set to spinning. When the markings settled back into stillness the pieces rose from the wood, forming so organically as to appear that they had grown in place. Two concentric rings around the edge, red and black interspersed so that she would have to reach across the table to move all the players.

"This is not what it looked like before."

"No," he agreed. His finger landed lightly on what she felt must be a pawn, rocking it slowly back and forth. It looked almost like a wolf, absent all its fur, too long limbs protruding. "Are you ready?"

He was not a careful player.

His pieces jumped, seemingly without rhyme or reason, making vast strides across the board. She countered, more instinct than strategy. Brought an armoured bear (a knight?) to cut down a wolf in roman collar when it strayed too close to her king. Sped pawns shaped like cubs with large clawed paws to the front lines. A series of fatigued attempts: reacting, reacting, reacting.

"Were the tests of your armies conclusive?"

"Oh, very," he offered amenably, crushing her rook to powder. She frowned, directing her queen to cover that gap. "Would you like some tea?"

"Only if you do not prepare it."

"Testy," he said, but called the samovar over on its cart, rolling towards him like an obedient dog. Conjured her a tea service so she could follow her own indulgence. She took a sip of the liquid, black and scalding, and leant back in her seat. She was determined; she would learn the rules yet.

It was twenty-two moves before she managed to corner another piece. She watched as it turned to shadow, the black of the hunched figure flattening to the surface. "What did you discover of your armies?"

"That they worked."

"But to what end?" she tried, and he only shook a finger at her. "One question only, Princess. You made the rules."

"You were to answer honestly."

"I haven't lied."

She took up her cup in a fit of frustration and threw it at the wall, half-full. It exploded in a fantastic display of glass and still-steaming tea, the rivulets dripping down so that they formed the outline of her father's face. Bastard.

It was thirty-six more moves before she claimed another.

"What did you make your armies of, that they needed to be tried?"

"Mud," he said. "Blood. Bone."

"A golem." He neither confirmed nor denied, eyebrow lifting with intrigue. But it had not been a question.

They had been impressive creatures. She remembered the way it had felt, blade cleaving flesh. They had fallen like men. Yelled like men, hit like men. Bled like men.

Corpses so dense underfoot it was as though the roads had been paved with meat.

"It must take a lot of magic to maintain so many."

A black knight paraded in a spiraling loop towards her remaining rook. "All magic must seem like a lot, to someone who doesn't have any."

In a fit of pique she ordered her rook to take the knight down with it. To her surprise it did, both pieces going up in a fit of self-immolating flame.

"A neat play," he said, congratulatory. "Shall I give you another question?"

"Why did you make your golems?"

His words carried such an air of self-evidence the query felt almost wasted. "I wanted to see if I could."

Fifty-one moves later she was growing tired. They had been playing for the better part of an hour, or two, perhaps three. There were no timepieces in this space and she could no longer grasp the measure of a minute.

The board was glaring up at her, the arrangement of their battle obvious. She would not win any more pieces. She had few enough players left and the spread of them was too close. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Ran down his knight with her queen in one final, savage sacrifice.

"How many tests did you need to perform before you would have been satisfied with your results?"

The sky disappeared behind his lids as he smiled at her, his face closing in black and white. "Three."

Three. Three of dozens, of nights posted up on the walls of her castle, looking down at fields swarming with pale bodies.

"An interesting choice," the sorcerer said, waving his hand over the surface. The lines shone, demarcations blurring together until the whole surface was washed in brilliant white. When the glare had finally faded, the table was empty. "But I feel you've misunderstood the object. You were protecting your king for far too long."

"If I lose my king the game is over."

"No, medvezhonok. Here, the queen is the one who decides victory."

"Foolish." She crossed her arms over her chest. "No one can play freely if they constantly fear the loss of their most powerful piece."

"This is true. But the risk makes it more interesting, don't you think?" He reached for more tea, offering to conjure up another cup for her. She shook her head. "Vodka."

An ice cold glass appeared in her hand and she tipped it back without pause. Licked her lips and made a vague gesture for another. The rim was already against her lips before it filled again.

"You lost the game, of course."

"Of course," she said evenly. She reached back with one hand for the fastening around her neck, barely catching the chain before the entire thing slid down her chest.

She handed the locket into his waiting palm. The second it touched skin the metal flared, turned colder than a winter's night caught out in the snow so she was forced to drop it.

He inspected it with undue interest. Flicked the latch so he could stare at the precisely painted little portrait. She didn't watch, circling her glass in the air until a full bottle materialized on the table.

"A sweet face," he said finally, snapping it closed. "I can see the resemblance."

He tucked the entire thing beneath his cloak, dropping it into a pocket so seamless he might have flayed the fabric into two layers, paper thin. She poured herself another shot and took it.

"You're welcome to win it back, of course. At another game."

The princess lifted the bottle in invitation.

"There are better things to play for."

* * *

  
She had tried to murder him only twice more since that first startled beginning.

The first effort had been exploratory. A probing query; a child's game, designed to determine the fringes of her restrictions by blowing blithely past them.

The second had come later. Four months into their shared cohabitation, when she felt she had a firmer grasp of the limitations confining her. Had allowed him to ply her with drink and then doused him with their seconds, lighting a match from the packet she had brought with her into this fantastic other.

She had smelt the brief sting of burning hair before it melted into something else; woodsmoke and amber and something older. A scent that made her think only of earth and dust and darkness.

And then he had simply been sitting across from her, flames eating through his clothes to caress his skin, pale as moonlight and unblistered.

When the last thread had turned to ash she had made him a proper cup of Russian tea and leant back in her chair to read.

The third time she had been galvanized. Moved by the near limitless potential of his magic, eager to put an end to her self-imposed imprisonment. She had never once seen him sleep, not so much as rest his eyes for a moment and let his breathing deepen.

And so.

She asked for a fireplace along one of the walls. Something to warm her, as she did not have his enchantments and the days (what she could tell of them) were growing steadily colder. Something bright and familiar instead of the unnatural authority he exerted over their internal atmosphere.

He acquiesced, though he must have sensed some trap. But he had proven fire-proof, after all, and what would she do with a flame that could not escape?

After three days, she began to season the smoke. Little sachets of herb that he gifted her, gathered in a woven basket by the hearth. Pine and applewood, maple and cherry. Anything to cover the cloying scent of honey that still lingered over everything, clung to her clothes and hair and sheets. She could not become accustomed to it, no matter how long she remained in the embrace of its perfume.

And then, in a week, she dropped in something that he had not provided.

Her herb sachet had been gifted to her by a magician's acolyte; a gift intended for clarity when she had exhausted other options. An illicit indulgence that had been smuggled carefully to her chambers before she had decided on departure. It flavoured the smoke, kept it dense and low so not all of it escaped through whatever means the sorcerer had contrived.

Sweet smelling and green it drifted through the air and circled around her, wrapping her like a blanket. She draped herself low in her seat and turned her face into her shoulder, where the fabric of her clothing had been wetted with water and vinegar enough to keep from breathing in too much smoke. And then she pretended to sleep.

It was the first time they had shared the room without both being conscious.

When the smoke had sputtered, the herbs finally swallowed into embers, she looked up. His eyes were closed.

She approached on cat's feet, silent and wary. Long lashes lay against his cheek, almost decadent in their fullness. The gentle curve of bone, only just flushed enough to still be pretty. He was an aesthetic thing, solitary lord of his domain. Sweet enough for a painting.

The princess caressed the crown of his soft black hair. Perhaps she would take it, when everything was finished. It would make fine lining for her gloves.

She stood behind him, the vial cold in one small fist. Raised her weapon like a sword, and then. He blinked.

He turned towards her and she brought her arm down too hastily. The glass slipped from sweaty fingers, warm with intent and ambience. She could see where it had rolled beneath a bookshelf, winking at her from the tight space between floor and the lowest wooden shelf.

But his eyes did not open.

She crawled towards the vial. It was lodged tight against the wall, the space too far for her fingers. She swept the room, looking for something she could use to marshal the errant weapon into her hands. None of the volumes on the shelves were slender enough, the utensils on the tea service just too short. The fireplace! She dashed over, reaching in for any stick still long enough to function. It crumbled in her fingers, ash and burning. There was no kindling stocked. They didn't need it.

She wiped her hands on her trousers and did not swear aloud. Then froze. There had been a shuffling behind her, the slight shifting of a man breaking out of sleep. When she turned she saw his lids fluttering.

He was waking.

Time, her constant enemy. She returned to her position at his back, resigned. It had not been to plan but she would not let opportunity elude her. She bent forwards, her boots flat to the ground, and dipped so that her jaw grazed the sculpted contours of his face. Embraced him as intimate as a lover and felt the surprise of breath escape his lips.

She locked her arms around his throat.

It was a hard thing to admit, but even after all this she would have been disappointed if he did not wake.

He thrashed against her. A startling motion, so much less than the control he had allowed her to perceive. This was instinct; animal. He reached blindly, clawing with delicate fingernails against her softening skin. Long streaks as he split thin ribbons into flesh, crimson beading bright as jewels. He had forgotten himself, breath thin and making his thoughts hazy. No magic, just the suggestion of force as he put his hand to her hair and pulled.

Fool. As though she would be swayed by so infantile a tactic. She had lead armies, had found herself in the throngs of battle, clashing metal singing out around her. She was no stranger to blood and breaking.

Her scalp was growing damp, wispy clumps pulled out with a savagery that had broken skin. She pressed harder, the blade of her forearm sharp against his throat.

And then he reared, thumb reaching for her eye.

If she moved he would break her hold. She clutched tighter, more pressure, knees bending as she dropped her weight. If necessary she would take the mutilation, would ride out this pain just so she could end their futile little challenge.

If she considered letting him secure his freedom, if she thought bleakly of all the boring battles waiting, spread out in her future, her opponents all men of flesh and blood and predictable lines of planning. If she felt herself waver she did not acknowledge it.

His hand was reaching, coming closer and she meant to let it. But. She had caught the glint of something on his finger. Her locket, the chain securing the pendant, wrapped around the digit like a ring.

The distraction was damning. He gained space enough to breathe and then it was as though his wits returned all of a piece. He made a slashing motion with the edge of his palm and blood burst from her arm with force before dripping wetly down his garments.

She did not swear but she was forced to release him and she spun, putting the chair between them as he made another motion. Fibres exploded from the seat, threads of silver and velvet falling soft as snow. She kicked out one leg with unmarked aggression and the entire thing snapped towards its owner. The sorcerer flung it away with prejudice as she dove beneath the dining table he had conjured for their last meal. It splintered above her, the broken ends gouging the floor where she had been crouched just moments earlier.

"That was a much better attempt," he said, still catching his breath. He could not see her in the room, and her clothes had long ago been enchanted to hide her from magical inquiry. There was a great scraping, as all the furniture was pushed to the outer edges. "I confess, I did not expect you to get quite so far with it."

There was no response. Prey did not announce themselves.

Predators didn't either.

"I'm sure you were hoping to get farther though, weren't you?"

He flinched backwards, a short dagger flying through the air just shy of his face. It hit the adjacent wall and stuck.

"Oh good. I was worried you might have given up." He extended a hand and attempted to call the weapon. It did not move. "I know better though, I suppose."

Another flash of silver and he stared, entranced, at the long thin blade protruding from his open palm. There was no wince, even as a thin rivulet trickled down along his wrist, intruding into his sleeve. He flexed. When nothing happen he reached over with his other hand and yanked the offending weapon out.

"How embarrassing. You've caught me twice today."

She was not fast enough. Just the barest flash as she darted between the tapestries and objects began to fling themselves in her direction. Books, teacups, small tables and their ruined chairs. Things that smashed themselves to pieces in service of their eager objective.

When she rolled to a stop behind a toppled bookcase, chest heaving, she heard it. He was _laughing_. Alive with the game.

She sprang upright, flinging another knife pin forwards. It embedded in his shoulder as he caught her on the cheek with a heavy kazan. She spit red on his carpet.

"Have you ever been in a real fight?"

"Without magic, I assume?"

She spit again, just for the pleasure of it. "No. One where you were not sure of your outcome. Where you feared for your _life_."

"Many times." His voice was easy as he regarded her, projectiles hovering just over his shoulder and ready to be released. "But not anymore."

"Then you have lost the sport of it."

She launched herself forwards, low and curving from the left so that he missed his mark. She could feel the breath leave him as she fastened around his thighs, felled as silently as a tree. There was a resounding crack as his back connected with the low edge of the shattered table.

Her fingers curled around his sex, grabbed roughly through his trousers, and he winced, batting at her ineffectually, surprised into disorder. When he finally thought to remove her through magical means, she had already reared back and slammed her forehead against his chin.

He swore, blood dripping from his mouth, flung out an arm to force her bodily away. She ducked beneath the swipe, rolling backwards to remain within striking range.

He wiped at his chin with the back of one hand. "That hurt."

"It was intended to."

And then she hooked her leg behind his ankle and swept low.

She fell on him like a beast, a starving thing with claws and experience, ready to tear him into pieces small enough to eat. Sparks flared out from his fingers, shocking her and burning skin. But it did not matter. She knew how to marshal pain as a soldier, obedient when it heard the authority in her voice. She would not be dissuaded from her prize.  
The sorcerer was breathing hard, staring incredulously up at her, expression set in something almost like disbelief. Her fingers were in his hair, fisted. She had been right; length enough to grab. She twisted his head and leant in, words warm against the shell of his ear. "I will take your life with my hands."

Then she darted forwards and bit. Teeth snapping together ready to tear and he growled, low and feral in his throat.

 _This!_ Blood was rushing through her, heart pumping, face flushed. Real, savage reaction, primal instinct and anger and the dissolution of all his meticulously crafted composure. She could have laughed.

Instead she leant in deliberately and licked the site of the wound. Copper and sweat and another flavour that she couldn't name.

His eyes glowed in his face. Too bright, too bright, colour leaching out with light. Pretty and cold, fatal as ice. She felt a shiver start in her spine and tensed against him so he would not read it.

Her arms snapped backwards, fastened at the small of her back, and she fell prone against him. She tested the bonds; a strip of fabric, probably torn from one of his offensive tapestries and compelled to save its master.

She attempted to roll off and he held her to him, his palm large against her head. "You think you'll escape so easily?"

His hand was warming to unbearable. She could smell the char of hair but she didn't struggle. Simply lay still, breathing, and then. Anchored herself by toe and knee with one leg as she swiftly brought up the other. Right at the point between his thighs.

He hissed, losing focus and she maneuvered herself away. Popped her shoulder, the shot of joints cracking, so she could wriggle out of his restraints.

She did not get far. She shot back into his embrace, the carpet undulating beneath her boots as it carried her towards him.

"You've been having too much fun."

She dropped, one arm reaching as she accelerated in his direction. He dodged and she caught him by the end of his cape, yanked hard enough to choke and stole his balance. A leg between his, a casual jutting of the hips he was prostrate on the ground, breath released with aggression.

She descended so quickly he might have thought it magic. Straddling him, warm against his torso, face close enough to kiss. "Admit it," she said, gasping. "You are enjoying yourself too."

He arched up and she thought, for a moment, of the cruel curl of his smile. She did not remove herself quickly enough and he bucked, the whole of the floor roiling underneath them so she could not keep her balance, and turned her over so that their positions were reversed.

He was still catching his breath when he stared down at her. "I'm afraid I don't think I have your propensity for physical violence."

She shifted her hips experimentally against him, but he held fast. Legs seamed to the carpet it appeared, stone supports fixed to ground. _Magic_.

A pity she had never had the talent for it. It was more useful than she had credited.

His grip was iron around her wrists, injecting her with some stiffness that kept her from bending fluidly away. The princess found herself crushed against him, blood soaking the front of her garments, red embroidery disappearing into the spreading colour. This close she could feel the pounding of his heart through his chest, beating fast.

"I should thank you for your hospitality before you kill me I suppose."

"Kill you?" He shifted down, examining the bruise that was blooming on one cheek. No gash, given the angle of collision. "Should I?"

She wiggled, attempting to at least escape his inspection. "Why would you not? I was close, today."

"An oath was made. Or have you forgotten it already?"

She had not, although she would have stayed without it. "You're handsome," she said instead. She could feel the split on her lip bleeding, red staining flesh.

He blinked at her. "Thank you?"

It was a moment, the slackening of his grip. She shifted to twist his hands away and slide out of his grasp before being brought instantly back, the velvet backing of a shattered chair returning her to her captor. Her back slammed against him and she groaned with irritation, head dropping to rest on his shoulder. The tangled mess of her hair tugged at her scalp, ends catching in the fastenings of his cloak.

"Concede," he said, breathy with laughter.

And there had been no recourse. Perhaps his name had been true. This was not a man who would make any acquaintance with the dark end of all things.

So.

She conceded. 

She went through the wreckage afterwards, found the vial in one quick sweep as though she had known where it had disappeared. It was whole, despite what looked like the wreckage of a dresser having broken over it. Unsavoury thing. She tucked it into her shirt, closest to her heart.

The glass was cold enough to burn.

After this attempt his demeanor did not change. But she noticed, when she approached with that bloodlust, rising as regular as the tides . . . a shield of silver light would flare into life, keeping her at a careful, lonely distance.

It took a near five weeks for the bruise on her face to fade.

* * *

  
"How did you occupy yourself, before I arrived?"

Six months had passed, the days marked out in careful cuts along the bottom hem of her sheets. A sedate routine of waking, finding company and then retiring to her room, where the efforts of her nightly exercise had worn strange tracking patterns into the rug on her floor. The motions were tending towards rigid practice, soulless and perfunctory. The princess felt like an axe that had forgotten how to cleave.

"Experiments, mostly. Learning." He threw down a king and she scowled heavily.

"I have been impeding your education," she said, shuffling through the cards in her hand. Not a single one of them changed faces.

"Perhaps I was eager for a change of pace."

"You were bored. That was no secret." She frowned and shook the cards. The seven of clubs resolved to a spade. The trump, for this game. That was something. "Why else would you invite an asp into your bed?"

"You have not been in my bed," he said easily, smiling.

"I have been in a bed in your home. Does that not make it yours?" She played her next attack: the jack of hearts. "Besides. I did not think you used one."

"Because you haven't seen it? Come now, you know better than to trust blindly to the evidence of your eyes."

"Do you have one, then?"

He played his king. Hearts. "Are you looking for a pretext to get acquainted with it?"

"Perhaps. I do think it might be easier to kill you from within your embrace." She waved her hand and drew four cards from the prikup and he followed.

"In that case I feel it would be smart of me to decline." A six. He must have been sitting on it for an age.

"Are you certain? I could make your death so sweet."

"Or perhaps I would convince you not to kill me after all."

She glanced at him over her cards. He was smiling at her, that crawling, empty thing that she had seen before. An expression she was not unfamiliar with, in large courts and political assemblies. "You are too confident. No matter your skill I cannot let you live."

"You haven't made any attempts on my life as of late."

She shrugged and put down an eight. "Pointless. I do not have the means to kill you yet."

"And you are determined to murder me? There is no way I can change your mind?"

"You know you cannot. You are too powerful to continue. And too irritating." He placed another king and she frowned. "I must not be the only one who has made an attempt."

"You are the first to reach me."

"And I will be the one to end you," she said reflexively. She would have to part with her eight of spades, tugging the card up when she paused. Looked to him, head tilted. "Who else resides in your palace with you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I have never seen anyone else, and I have been here long enough," she said, making her defense and simultaneously secreting a card into her long sleeves. The sorcerer knew she was cheating of course, but there was no sense in making a half-effort. If she behaved too honestly she would lose the skill of it.

Besides. He was cheating too.

"Who do you think provides all the medovik?"

She frowned. "How have I not met a single servant? Are they invisible perhaps?" She rubbed discreetly at her smuggled card and it turned from a king to a nine. Damn. She had known at least one of his kings had been false and she'd picked incorrectly. "Are you keeping them from me so I will be forced to rely on your company?"

"You think me so manipulative," he said, smiling.

She sighed, sinking further into her seat (a new confection, straight backed and covered in quilted velvet, red as sin). Her boots were dangling, one toe rubbing a hole into the pile; if he weren't inclined to do something about it soon it would go bald.

The stain where she had spit blood was still on his carpet.

"This castle too. It is so big and yet I have only seen two rooms."

"Well what are you looking for?"

She shrugged. She was down to her last two cards. "A library, perhaps? The kitchens at the very least, there must be _something_ else we can eat. I am sick of medovik and it is a wonder my teeth have not all fallen from my mouth."

"Nothing consumed in here can harm you in any way." 

"That is not my concern and you know it." He laughed in answer and she kicked at the leg of his chair. It didn't so much as tremble.

He played his last card and she dropped hers, disgusted. When it landed, face shiny, she stared. Instead of the six she had expected it was a joker, no harlequin on its face but a skeleton of wings, phalanges cupped like a pair of grasping hands.

"I do not need your mercy," she said finally, frowning.

"It isn't mercy. That card is still a losing defense."

"Then I do not understand your joke."

He picked up the offending card, holding it casually between two fingers, just at the corner. "Then I apologize, it was made in poor taste."

The game was his, but he made no move to claim his prize. (Having her try some nastoiki that he had personally produced, made with chestnuts and herbs with names that sounded too alien to be correct. Even if the drinks here could not harm her the taste was a torture so inventive as to be genius). He did not look at it, but she could sense his attention, diverted to the flat picture in his hand.

"Do you have a name?" She asked suddenly.

It startled him enough to focus. "Who doesn't have a name?"

"What is it?"

He flicked his wrist and the card disappeared. Ignoring, for the moment, that she was asking for a boon she hadn't won. "You've been calling me 'The Deathless', have you not?"

"But you weren't born 'The Deathless'," she persisted.

"Maybe I wasn't born at all."

She vaulted over the table without disturbing the remains of their game. He had barely enough time to react before she flung herself in his lap, his personal barrier making no effort to waylay her.

"That was a surprise," he said softly, staring up into her furious face. She gripped his kosovorotka with a soft hand and yanked hard enough to rip. The fabric parted, tearing from chest to navel; a large gaping wound that showed the tailored band of his pants. "I certainly wouldn't have seriously guessed the evening was headed in this direction."

The princess trailed one hand down the smooth skin and he nearly jumped, one large palm resting flat on her thigh. Hairless and young, despite the maturity of his face. All except for a gathering of dark curls trailing into his slacks. She lingered at the point of his umbilicus, pressing lightly. "You have this. You were born."

She shifted backwards, her boots finding the floor beneath her, and he let her go. "Tell me your name."

"Oh? Are you curious?" This smile was different. Paradoxically absent its usual emptiness, so laden with meaning for a moment she couldn't name it. Hunger. He made no effort to mend the shredded edges of his clothing.

Curiosity reared inside her, the scent of some secret calling to her. She did not move away. "Should I not know the name of my generous host?"

He considered her. Still sprawled, relaxed, arms loose on his lap. His chest was pale beneath his kosovorotka, almost white. "Alright then. Win a game, and I will tell you."


	3. Chapter 3

After a year she woke with a cold certainty in her chest and knew she could delay no longer. She would have to kill the Deathless.

It was a strange thing to say goodbye to her room. She had worn herself into the creases of it; threadbare carpet, nicks in the contours of the wall. A pile of shattered porcelain when she had flung a newly intruding vase at the edges, the pieces lying where they fell because she had no means by which to sweep them. The chip on the corner of her washing basin, beheading a blue dancing bear.

It had not been home, she knew that. Nothing but a pale imitation of a place that she loved.

Still, she tucked her pillows back into her bed, drew the covers up. Tidied the mirror so it showed no prints, emptied the water in the basin into a shining chamber pot, water vanishing as it hit metal. Tidying the space as though she were going to return.

When the princess appeared in his chambers, bags slung over one shoulder, the sorcerer frowned.

"You mean to leave," he said, putting down his pen.

"Surely you knew I could not stay forever."

"You have not killed me yet." Disappointment dripped from his mouth, so heavy it gathered at his feet. "Do you no longer care to?"

He was studying her, attempting to disassemble the puzzle she presented. His eyes were intent and considering despite his casual posture, and she could feel the question probing as an arrow. A trick, perhaps? Some method to creep beneath his guard and strike?

She shifted her burden on her back and sighed. "To what end? I have not forgotten your name, Deathless Sorcerer."

He inclined his head. "You said that was not my name."

"It is the only one you've given me."

"Well." He shrugged, smiling, and it was the stiff motion of a machine. "You are terrible at games."

She would not release his gaze, those splintered eyes thin in his face. Hiding, black and white. "You are a better cheat than me."

"You could learn."

"Perhaps. But I do not have the time."

He unfolded all at once, long limbs reaching. The tea service approached on quiet wheels, the samovar already bubbling. "At least have one more drink before departing. It'll be a long journey."

"I have not forgotten."

She dropped into her chair. _Hers_ , molded to her shape, accepting her as affectionately as a daughter. She sat upright, proper, as though those months without decorum had been a dream. He waved and a cup and saucer appeared in her lap, empty.

"Drink with me," she said. He arched a dark brow, a teacup appearing in one fine hand. The metal of his rings clattered against the porcelain.

"No," she said, putting down her cup. " _Drink_ with me."

"It's early," he told her, but her cup became a tiny glass, cold enough that frost coated the rim. A bottle of vodka appeared in the centre of the table, cold air rising like steam.   
She filled the glass to the brim. Handed it over to her host, skin sticking to the surface when he reached to accept it. Another materialized in front of her as though she had never picked up the first.

"Vashe zdorovye," she said evenly, eyes boring into his. He laughed, raised his arm and offered his shot. "Vashe zdorovye."

They knocked their drinks together without a single drop spilling over the brim.

And then they drank. One shot, two. A third, that she poured with a steady hand, the strong smell of alcohol singeing her senses. It was bracing on the tongue, burning in the throat. Smooth as glass and twice as sharp.

"Za vstrechu."

He seemed subdued now, flush rising on his face like it had been painted on. Red cheeks, soft mouth and the dark silk of his hair. A portrait someone might be persuaded to hang in their halls, even without ever having known its subject. "And vsego khoroshego."

It occurred to her that she had never won back her locket.

Four shots, five, eight. She placed the bottle carefully beneath the table. Stretched, standing to her full height.

"Shall I walk you out?"

The portal was no distance behind her. She shook her head. "I can manage, I'm sure."

Silence. He was slumped back in his seat, eyes closed, peaceful enough to be sleeping. Such an open opportunity—

"Na pososhok, then. One more."

Awake after all. She dropped easily back down, hands falling idle in her lap. "One more," she agreed.

They downed the shot in silence. She did not stand.

"So you're really going to go?"

"Of course. I have obligations I must return to. I have dallied too long already here with you."

The sorcerer chuckled artlessly. Then snapped upright, leaning on his knees so that he was pressing forwards towards her. His eyes were shadowed, dark as lakes. "Pardon my rudeness, but. I thought you would be more fun, Vashe Vysochestvo."

"You were hoping I would kill you?"

"No." He shook his head. Saw the error of this and stopped, unhappy. "I was hoping that you _could_."

He had swayed closer, vodka exhaled on every breath, expression bright. Watching her, waiting for a response to considerately dangled bait. His lips were still wet with liquid.  
She sprang at him. Bridged the gap with force, teeth knocking carelessly as she wound a hand into his hair and kissed him.

He tasted like honey.

She did not remember standing. First she was sitting and then she was not, walking him back into his seat until she was straddling him, her free hand searching, warm on the skin beneath his collar. Every expanse smooth beneath barely callused palms.

He had his hands on her waist, pulling her close enough to hear the familiar racing of his heart. Breathless and hungry in a way both different and the same. Moving his lips against hers, everything audacious demand. This was no gentle lover's query, no romantic prelude. Just a desperate, animal desire, fueled as urgently as survival.

She bit his lip until she tasted the sharp sweetness of blood. Waited for his low indignation so she could slip her tongue into his mouth, take every part of him for herself if she could not take his life.

His touch was wandering, arms splitting between the point below her shoulders and the apple of her ass. Crushing her against him closer than he had when he'd been looking to subdue. He was warmer than she remembered, but the aggression was familiar. Easy to fall into, to match.

She had lost many battles, but she had not yet lost a war.

"You will miss me," she said, so close against his mouth she might have stolen the words. He did not grace her with response but it had not been a question.

"You came here at a purpose." He moved from her face, bent to the sweet skin at her neck. A new chapter in the learning of her opened at the last, and he applied himself well to his education.

She arched against him, gasping. "But were you not entertained?"

He made a noise that might have been laughter, puffs of breath against her throat, teeth scraping, and she placed her hands on his face and drew him back to meet her.

Kissing him was diverting exercise. A sinful indulgence that had her aching to grab fistfuls of his rubakha, tear the silk to shreds so she could enjoy the pale invitation of his skin. She released him to edge her fingers beneath the hem, scratch against the taut lines of his abdomen, fabric gathering on her arms.

He took her urging. Did not even stop for breath before the silk had disappeared and he was bare chested beneath her, all that warmth pressing through her clothes.

The vulnerability of his nakedness was intoxicating. She curled over him, hips rolling as she latched against his pulse and sucked. His head fell back against the chair, a bright hiss of air escaping at her brutal attentions.

Her hand was at the collar of her clothes, tugging, eager. And then his were beneath them, rucking them up from the hem, so hot she was sure the fibres would catch fire. She bucked against him and he groaned, the sound soft and debauched in the rustling of their intimacy.

The princess was no stranger to temptation. The rush of blood, that spike of adrenaline. Power and hunger and _want_ : such primal, familiar friends that she sought them like companions. In whatever form they took.

She ground down and felt the evidence of his enthusiasm at the apex of her thighs. She was _aching_.

There was a tug; her hair being pulled, neck snapping back as he pulled her from his chest. And then he was on her with bruising force, mouths meeting. Taking, _stealing_. Breath and authority and space, a constant duel that had her heartbeat running beneath the armour of her ribs.

He was aching, too.

She could feel it. There was a dampness on his trousers that he hadn't bothered to disguise. He broke from her only long enough to ask. "Do you still want to see my bed?"

And she did, she _did_. It would be such a simple thing to go with him. To fall into the violence of his embrace and enjoy the carnage as they tore each other apart. "Yes," she said.

And then she took the vial that she had stashed against her heart and broke it on his crown.

He crumpled like a child's doll, boneless and asleep. Black steam lifting from his hair, evaporating, peeling away to reveal the shine of silver underneath. She shook shards of glass from her hand, plucked the slivers with careful fingers. Her palm was messy with blood, the dark contents of the vial turned colourless once it had left its vessel. It did not drip; rather clung to her fingers in fat drops, her skin turning gold in the places where it lingered. She wiped along the fabric of her trousers, but this new colouring did not fade.

She pulled back, still straddling him, and took the measure of his pulse. He lived.

The princess could not quite find it in herself to be disappointed.

The sky was bright when she emerged from that floating doorway. Stumbling under the weight of her burdens, she nearly crashed into the creature standing on the flat. She blinked, staring up.

It was not the wild horse that had carried her to this cursed destination. It was not an animal she had seen before: something tall and leathery that stood on four legs thick as the trunks of trees. Its head was framed by large, billowing ears, and a dropping tail where a nose might have been. Strange horns curved outwards from its face, adorned with hammered silver rings.

"Greetings," the princess said. She made a shallow bow, unable to bend for fear of falling to the ground. The beast stared back at her with one dark, intelligent eye and said nothing.

"I no longer have the silver apple." This statement was not met with outrage; a promising sign. "I do not know how to pay for passage."

Nothing. It occurred to her to wonder if this beast were hers at all, if it had not simply happened on this site with unwitting coincidence. She took a step forwards, hoping to manage at least one more attempt.

There was a crack underfoot, and she shifted her burden to check the ground below her. There was nothing but little chips of white like paint, or the cracked shell of an egg, growing farther and farther away as the ground lifted away from her. 

Around her waist the creature's strange facial appendage had curled, lifting her and her luggage both onto the broad expanse of its back. It did not wait for her to settle before it began to move.

The princess looked back at the place she had lived for the year past. There was no sign a castle had ever stood in the spot, the landscape dark and featureless around them. 

  
It was the strangest journey. Every step of the great beast's feet seemed to cover a moderate distance, but the landmarks of her memory were far smaller than she recalled. The metallic forest was three paces from the palace, the familiarity of the dark woods seven paces from that. And then they emerged at the borders of her palace, as though the trees began right at the boundary, considerate of the line.

The beast would go no farther. She was plucked from its back, her things dropped down beside her. Even from here she could see Nastia trotting a short distance before her, as though she were only just returning to her stables after the princess had let her loose.

"Thank you," she said. She did not turn to the beast, staring directly ahead. For some reason, she did not feel it wise. "I am grateful for your help. If you would like to enter, I can have water and fruits and nuts brought for you."

No response, though she had not expected one. When she reached out and felt nothing, she finally ventured a glance. The space beside her was empty.

She did not give the strangeness a second though and whistled, piercing. Ahead, the soft ears of her mare shifted. Sweet Nastia turned her head, coming as called. She did not look surprised to see her master returned, things heavy on the ground.

The mare allowed herself to be laden down. Then, the princess took her horse's reigns and began to walk.

Her councilors were not pleased to see her, though relief leaked through like sweat. The statesmen were of no mind, although they eyed the royal seal on her clothes with an alarming appetite. The priest's acolytes brought prayer beads and blessings, redirected from the prayers for her safe return.

She had been gone the sum total of five days.

It was not until they trailed her to the stables, flocking like birds, overlapping voices sharp as a crow's cries and clouding her tired thoughts, that one small servant of the assembly finally thought to look down at the mare and begin to divest her of her baggage, that her prize was finally discovered.

"Princess! You have defeated the Deathless!"

Blessed silence descended as they turned to look at the prone body as one.

She handed Nastia off to the stable hands and said with authority, "I am going to sleep."

* * *

She did not wake for two full days and a night. Too much time had been taken from her, stolen between the seconds of the past few days. Her attendants had hovered at her side, concerned, while the statesmen sat in their chairs and gleefully imagined new changes in the palace.

When she finally opened her eyes, it was to a darkened room, to the moving shadows of her servants sleeping anxious at her bed, to the strange incongruity of a ceiling reasonably square and flat. She shifted to the side opposite the sleeping form, slipping from her sheets as easily as a ghost. When she put her hand to the wall she could not feel the slight curve.

She was a stranger in her home.

Her dressing gown — left draped over a chair before her departure — felt too large and too cold when she slipped it on. The silk was coarse to her pampered skin. She abandoned it, wearing only her boots and the dagger she slept with on her thigh.

She took a candle and descended to the dungeons in the silence of her sleeping palace, all alone.

He was beautiful before but now he was otherworldly. Even the dimness of the cell could not disguise it; the subdued damp and earthy darkness not diminishing the obvious art of his form. The candlelight flickered over his hair, turning the shine metallic. She pushed the feathery bangs off his forehead. The silk touch was not changed by his transformation.

"You should not be so close."

The point of her dagger was already at the intruder's throat. The princess narrowed her eyes. "Where have you been?"

"I went where I was needed."

The magician smiled at her, face still half-obscured beneath that ever-present hood. He did not move from the danger of her blade.

"You believe you know better than I do?"

"You managed to subdue the Deathless," he said instead.

"He is not dead."

"I promised only that you might stop him. Whether he lived or died was of no real importance."

"You are not the one to decide that," she said, but she lowered her weapon. Turned to her prone prisoner, the magician at her back.

"What will you do with him?"

She kept her arms stiff at her sides. She did not like this strange new compulsion; that desire to touch him too pronounced. The spread of his feathered lashes lay thick on his cheek and she dropped her gaze to the damp stone floor. "He will be beheaded in the public square for the benefit of the people."

"For their entertainment?"

"For their peace."

"Ah. Do you think it possible?" A moment's pause, and before she could voice her question he handed her a set of seven heavy iron manacles. Each ring was thick, emblazoned with the same seal she had shattered on her prisoner's head. "I have brought you something."

She felt the weight of them, pulling down her arm. Industrial. Impressive. Thick enough to chain a beast. "These are for him. You believe him still a danger."

"You did not follow my instruction."

Her glare should have bent mountains. "They were not valid for my situation."

"Then these will have to suffice."

"It is true then." She stared down into that handsome face. Sleeping, peaceful as a child. "He cannot be killed."

There was no response. When she turned she was met only with the blank expanse of wall behind her, the steady drip of water from the dark ceiling overhead. Magicians. Those that dwelt too close to the arcane were terrible to manage, worse to employ. Still.

She approached the sorcerer, considering. Unsheathed her dagger for the second time that night and laid the cool edge of her blade against his cheek. No matter how she angled, how hard she pressed, the outcome remained the same.

He could not be cut.

* * *

  
"After this we burn the body, so he can plague us no more."

Her assembly agreed that this was sense, unanimous for the first time in an age. They stared uneasily at the prone figure lying in that open tomb, breathing softly. It was difficult to imagine the depths of destruction capable of such a docile face. 

"We should take him to the pyre now, while he still dreams." A whisper, a _challenge_ to her order.

The more attentive of them took a pace back, wary of her temper. She did not indulge their expectations, but her voice was clipped. "The people must see that he is of no danger now. The Deathless as they know him is only a man, in the end."

"And he will not wake before his execution?"

"You do not trust me." A damning observation. The councilor cowered but it was too late, bleeding from a shallow cut along his cheek. Her blade had not been drawn, her attending knight slapping with such swift force they had barely heard the impact. The man staggered backwards, dismissed, and the collective audience held their breath.

The princess was no longer looking at them. Drawn, as always, inexorably, to the handsome devil who had plagued them. When she spoke her words were so soft they strained to hear.

"At any rate it does not matter. Three days, awake or not, he goes to the fire."

* * *

The Deathless was displayed for public viewing for three days. The people came forth in droves to see the source of their recent misery, hissing and spitting and cursing at his countenance, or else crossing themselves quietly and muttering a prayer. But everyone visited only once. Saw the monster made a man and felt relief seep through their marrow and were not minded to return.

The princess closed the tomb after three days so she could have him moved. When she stepped through the stone doorway in the morning, the incoming light revealed a shock of blues and yellows bursting on his head. Somehow someone had approached and placed a wreath of flowers over his hair without attracting notice.

She did not express surprise when her attendants gasped, shocked at the sacrilege. She merely gave the door a passing glance, noted an utter lack of force or damage, and made a note to speak to her knights before the close of day. _Sternly_. But when she directed them to move him, his eyelids did not flutter, his breathing did not change. He was still asleep.

She had him brought to the chapel, the four of them a strange procession. The Deathless stretched prone on a stretcher between two knights, the princess following. Her eyes trained on him, unmoving, for the whole of their journey.

And then he was to be dressed for his execution. Placed in a coffin of deep wood, padded with silk and cotton so he would not be tempted to wake. Interned inside, nails pressed deep through the lid and then sealed with a blessing so her could not escape. Even as the wood finally, finally hid him from her gaze she found she could barely tear herself away.

He would be burned at evening's invitation. A knight was dispatched to guard him and she turned on her heel and strode from the room, leaving them all behind her.

* * *

  
The buzz of anticipation lay heavy in the halls. Rumours draped the walls like hangings, whispers carpeted her steps. Every encounter began with hastily dead air, as though the occupants of the room she'd entered had called their words back into their mouths. She could guess at their speculation. No one could verify her strange and beautiful prisoner's identity, and he was not conscious to rise to his own defense. Perhaps this was only theatre, meant to placate their minds and pacify her councilors. But all this paranoia was tinged with relief, with the desire to _believe_. They wanted to be free of him more than they could doubt their ruthless ruler.

She wandered into the chapel unaccompanied. The knight placed on guard was drooping heavily at his post, the coffin unmoved from the low table where it had been placed. There was a clatter as her man stood to attention, mortification warring with horror on his face.

"Leave," she said curtly, fingers resting lightly on her hilt. "Have some food to bring yourself back to alertness. And return, immediately. I do not mean to take your post."

She was met with stammered apologies that she glared back into silence. The knight bowed and rushed hastily away, footsteps heavy and uneven in the empty hallway. He did not close the door behind him.

The princess walked over and shut herself inside, pressing the heavy wood closed on a whisper.

And then she turned and approached.

She had had this coffin made to precise specification. She did not touch it, just stood, staring, eyes roving over the length of unadorned wood. It was a pauper's coffin; boxy and unrefined, plain and unremarkable. It did not betray the value of the silks inside it, of the man.

She placed one hand beneath the bottom, where the edge of it protruded over the table. Felt the seam and flattened her palm, sliding a panel out of the wood, exposing silk to her probing touch. She stood there for a moment, still.

And then she replaced the small panel and stepped back right as the door burst open. The knight was panting, bread and one apple clutched in his fist, panic written on his face as he met her impassive gaze.

"You were quick."

"I. Of course, Vashe Vysochestvo. It was improper for me to leave at all."

"As long as you realize your error." She brushed past him, her hands folded at her back. "I will not suffer you to repeat it."

She did not turn to watch him bend with disgrace, the angle of his bow so low his head could almost brush the floor.

* * *

  
They carried him in great procession to the pyre. The orange of the flames were garish in the night, spiraling smoke disappearing into the darkness. The crowd was gathered in a hush, watching as fire ate at the wood, curdling in great swathes of black and burning, the night swallowed by the smell of bubbling meat.

When the blackened figure was finally revealed behind the disintegrating wood coffin a cheer rose up, solemnity turning to celebration.

The princess stared down at the happiness of her people from her bedroom balcony and turned her back on the stars.


End file.
